


Well, I Think You're Just Evil

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Take Me To The Stars [9]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Date Night, F/F, Fluff, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-14 21:26:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16920681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Clara and the Doctor's date night is rudely interrupted not once, but twice.





	Well, I Think You're Just Evil

**Author's Note:**

> From allnewtpir's prompt:
> 
> _Missy comes across 13/Clara while the two are on a date night. She tags along as they then encounter a drunk who makes with the casual misogyny. 13 tries to diffuse, Clara prepares for kicking, but Missy pulls out her death iPod. "Wackiness" ensues._
> 
> Glorious fun to write. Small warning for slightly icky homophobic language.

“You look beautiful tonight.” 

Clara drops her gaze to the sparkling surface of the bar, feeling her cheeks suffuse with heat at the words as they leave her partner’s mouth. They’re heartfelt and honest, and the sincerity with which they’re spoken takes her breath away in a way that few things can nowadays, and so she reaches over and takes her partner’s hand, giving it a light squeeze of nonverbal gratitude in lieu of attempting to offer up anything more eloquent.

“You do,” the Doctor says more insistently, understanding her partner’s thoughts perfectly, before placing her hand against Clara’s cheek and gently tilting her face up until she can look her in the eyes. There’s a deep affection in her gaze, and a spark of mischief, and Clara can’t help but smile in response. “Don’t look so shy about it.” 

“I _am_ shy about it,” Clara mumbles, turning her head and pressing her lips against the Time Lady’s palm tenderly, before sticking her tongue out like a child, making her partner giggle. “Very much so. Because I’m with this crazily beautiful woman, and yet that crazily beautiful woman thinks _I’m_ the beautiful one.”

“Maybe we’re both beautiful,” the Doctor says earnestly, her eyes wide and sparkling. “I think that’s definitely a thing that is entirely possible, because there’s no way either of us are ugly.”

It’s still, even after all this time, oddly refreshing how unencumbered the Doctor is by the trappings of modern womanhood. There’s no self-consciousness there or faux modesty; no pretentiousness or awareness of how she should or must look in accordance with the patriarchy or society or some unwritten set of rules that neither of them can keep up with. She doesn’t try to put herself in a box, or be polite and unassuming. Instead, she’s refreshingly honest, and Clara knows that when she says that neither of them are ugly, she’s not being conceited – she’s merely refusing to pass judgement on anyone based on their appearance. Human, Gallifreyan, android, alien; it doesn’t matter to her. Nothing will ever be ugly to the Gallifreyan, because she can find beauty in almost anything. Clara’s mind flicks back to Caliburn House involuntarily, and she remembers the look of elation on that Doctor’s face as he looked upon the creature they had found there and told it with heartfelt honestly how special it was.

She thinks, briefly, about countering this Doctor’s assertion. That’s what she’d been conditioned to do, many decades ago back on Earth. But this isn’t Earth, and this woman isn’t human, and neither, she supposes, is she anymore, and so instead she smiles, and leans over and kisses her partner on the cheek demurely.

“You’re sweet.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

“And golly, isn’t this sick-making,” a third voice chimes in, and Clara all but shrieks in shock. She knows that voice. She’s argued with that voice – she’s almost _killed_ the owner of that voice. She tries to get to her feet instinctively, but the Doctor is faster; before she can react, the Time Lady is stood, tense as a coiled spring, with one arm angled across Clara like a shield. Perhaps in her old life, Clara would have found this patronising; as it is, it’s rather sweet, although she gently shifts the Doctor’s hand to the side and takes a stand beside the Time Lady, raising her head defiantly.

“What are you doing here?” the Doctor asks, chest rising and falling in tangible panic as she’s confronted with… well, Clara doesn’t have a straightforward way to classify her. ‘Frenemy’, perhaps, or ‘best enemy’. “What do you want?” 

“Please,” Missy rolls her eyes, readjusting her hair as she does so. “I’m not here to injure either of you. _You’re_ much too pretty, and _she’s_ much too undead.”

“So, what do you want?” the Doctor’s tone is wary, and Clara can’t say she blames her. She’s heard tell of Missy’s fate, and while she supposes that this might be a version of the Time Lady pre-dating her own death, it’s still rather like being confronted with a ghost. She’d hoped to never be faced with Missy again, and yet here she is – garbed head to toe in an odd shade of brown and smirking like a cat that’s got the cream.

“You know, that isn’t very friendly,” Missy pouts. “I’ve not seen you in _ages_ and now you’re all beautiful and upgraded like me, and you’re immediately assuming that I’m here to murder someone.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe. Not you two, though,” Missy grins wolfishly, then giggles. The juxtaposition is jarring, and Clara leans closer to the Doctor, disconcerted as ever by Missy’s rollercoaster-like emotions. “Now, come on. I’d like a hug, please. I want to assess your lady lumps and work out if they’re bigger than mine or not.”

“Missy!” Clara groans, and the Time Lady’s gaze flicks to her, the self-satisfied look on her face intensifying. “You’re… incorrigible.” 

“Hello,” Missy breathes with genuine wonder, and Clara is disconcerted by the lack of underlying murderous intent in her voice. “Gosh, I’ve missed you.” 

“I…” 

“Don’t look so frightened. You’re doing what you were always supposed to; you’re taking care of my bestest friend, and for that I thank you.”

“She’s not your best friend. You keep trying to kill her,” Clara reminds her, and Missy laughs. 

“It’s our texting, remember?” 

Clara’s mind flashes back to a Mediterranean square and a plea for help, many lifetimes ago. “I suppose,” she says carefully. “Do you want to hug her?” she asks her partner, who chews her lip thoughtfully then shrugs.

“S’pose,” the Doctor decides, stepping forward and allowing Missy to pull her into an embrace. There’s a moment of terse uncertainty before she relaxes into it, placing her arms around her fellow Time Lady and returning the hug. Words are exchanged, too quiet and possibly too alien for Clara to catch, but when the two women break apart, they’re both smiling serenely in a way that is entirely familiar on the Doctor but wholly alarming on Missy. 

“OK?” Clara asks uncertainly, and they nod in unison. “You both look… kind of weird.” 

“No, it’s just…” the Doctor’s gaze lingers to Missy, and a look of affection passes over her face – lightning fast, but not too fast for Clara to catch. She can’t help it – she feels a stab of jealousy, and clenches her hands into fists at her sides. She knows, rightfully, that the Doctor is hers now – wholly and unequivocally hers – but she is still aware that the Time Lady will always hold a deep-rooted set of feelings for Missy; ones that Clara steadfastly refuses to try and understand. “Nice to know I’m not alone in the universe. I’m not the last of my people.” 

“Temper,” Missy breathes, Clara’s act of defiance having failed to escape her notice, and the Doctor’s gaze flicks down to Clara’s fists, her face taking on a worried expression at once. “I’m not here to steal her, puppy.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Clara snaps, taking half a step forwards, irked as she is by the old barb. “I’m not-” 

“You know my history with the Doctor,” Missy says loftily, gesturing with one hand as she speaks, and her dismissive nature only serves to infuriate Clara all the more. “But I’ve really no interest in ruining what you two have. I might be a tart, but I’m not a homewrecker. I resent the mere implication of it. You’re honestly welcome to her, Clara.”

“That’s…” Clara swallows thickly, unsure how to respond. She avoids looking at the Doctor, whose gaze she can feel burning into her back, and instead she forces herself to relax her fingers, splaying them out at her sides. “Good.” 

“You know I don’t want her,” the Doctor says softly, wrapping her arms around Clara’s waist from behind, and she can all but sense Missy’s reaction to the words. She pointedly keeps her eyes downcast, knowing that if she looks up then she’s lost. “Clara, you know I’m wholly yours.” 

“Of course I know,” she mumbles, tears suddenly burning at her eyes. She feels foolish – like a chastised child being spoken to by an adult both infinitely older and wiser – and yet she leans back into the embrace all the same, craving reassurance. “It’s fine, don’t-” 

The Doctor takes her hand and lifts it to her mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Yours,” she reminds her. “OK?”

“If you’re done being loved up, can we please get a drink and talk about silly girly things?” Missy trills, and Clara can’t help but sigh in resignation. 

“Fine,” she says, pulling away from the hug but leaving her hand in the Doctor’s. “I suppose so.” 

“That’d be nice,” the Doctor concurs, hesitating before slipping her arm around Clara’s waist and pressing a quick kiss to her temple, evidently already missing their higher degree of physical contact. “What are you-” 

“Well, well, well,” a voice behind them drawls. “What have we got here?” 

Clara knows that tone. She can sense the Doctor’s confusion, unaccustomed as she is to dealing with such anger and prejudice, and so instead it’s her that wheels around and stares furiously at the speaker. It’s a large man with a shaved head and bushy beard, and he’s leering at them with barely-concealed contemptuous ill-will, his clothes splattered with raindrops, having apparently just entered the bar from the street. 

“Couple of dykes, is it?” he continues, a smirk playing around his features as he realises the whole bar has fallen into stupefied silence, watching the situation play out with apprehension. “We don’t want your type around here.” 

“That’s funny,” the Doctor says calmly, before Clara can interject with something less polite and with fewer letters. “Because we were drinking here with no problems at all last week, and the week before, and the week before that.” 

“Well, we don’t want you here no more. We don’t want no dykes sullying up our bar.” 

Looking around at the mismatched patrons, Clara can see the general lack of agreement with his words, and yet no one steps forwards, and no one pipes up. It’s the three women versus this ill-mannered drunk; there’s no backup and no reinforcements on the horizon, that much is clear. 

“Not natural, is it?” he continues, his smug expression intensifying as he gets into his vitriolic stride. “Women are weak and puny; they can’t make decisions or nothing. No, what they need to keep them in check is a strong man with a rock hard c-”

Clara tenses up, readying herself to launch an attack on this moronic excuse for a human being. She remembers enough of her taekwondo to know that she can do him a serious injury, and she mentally steels herself to do so. 

“I think actually-” the Doctor says in a loud voice, cutting his crudeness short, squeezing Clara’s hand warningly. “That you’ll find that women aren’t weak at all; I know I’m not and I know my partner isn’t, and-” 

“And you know, don’t you,” Missy drawls lazily, in a tone that Clara realises she recognises. “That I’m not either.” 

She holds up a small, horribly familiar handheld device, and the man disintegrates into a small pile of ash.

Clara isn’t entirely sure what happens next; the bar lapses into terse silence and then dissolves into uproar, and moments later they find themselves bundled outside and into the rain as the clamour inside continues. 

“What…” she begins, short of breath and giddy on adrenaline. “What the hell just happened?”

“I don’t have time for homophobia, dearie,” Missy says bluntly, examining her nails as she speaks. “Or sexism. And I think I might have just started a queer feminist uprising in that lovely little bar. Excellent choice of drinking venue, by the way. Totally not patronised by dodgy locals, or anything.” 

“Is it going to end up completely ruined?” the Doctor asks worriedly, her eyes wide with guilt. “Because it was by and large very nice in there, and we wanted to go back. We might have to help the owners clear up, too.” 

“I know a better bar,” Missy says at once. “Why don’t we go and check that out? It’s _oodles_ more fun.”

“Why don’t I trust you?” Clara asks, narrowing her eyes suspiciously, but Missy only cackles. 

“Because you have a brain. Now, are you coming, or not?”


End file.
